


Weaver Spins a Yarn

by MemoryCrow



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Control Issues, Edgeplay, F/M, Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, Power Play, Sexual Fantasy, dirty mindedness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 21:47:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13444059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: This fic is fulfilling a Brokensoul request for solo Rumple, specifically in the older, somewhat portly guise of Weaver. From the tags, it may appear that this is Weaver Does Hyperion Heights, but the relationship tags really represent a series of fantasies.  :)





	Weaver Spins a Yarn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brokensoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brokensoul/gifts).



Weaver sipped bourbon, neat, and bristled as Rogers crossed his mind. He was so _good_. Such a good boy. That Eagle Scout business, the crossing of T’s and dotting of I’s; it was a little off-putting. Really, it was a darker, intense sort of goodness, less dogged heroics and more of a quiet observation. It could be a problem.

Weaver wanted to keep him close, to know what exactly it was Rogers was observing. He did not need intrusion into his own affairs or undo fuss over his methods. He got results; he wasn’t overly concerned with… he believed the department’s current terminology was ‘ethical compliance’.

But Rogers was concerned. He was concerned about everything, it seemed. Brow drawn low, jaw tense. He was a good-looking man who cut a nice line; he should be busy womanizing and enjoying his relative youth. Instead, he was concerned.

With a sigh, Weaver ran his hand through his hair. It was growing out, a touch too long and ragged, and it seemed as if – overnight – he gone from a subtle graying to a sandy-silvery all over. He’d also grown a bit of a paunch, love handles that seemed to have settled in for the duration. Time marched on, sneaky and sometimes surprising.

He felt a bit envious of Rogers, though he wouldn’t go backwards for love nor money. He felt annoyed with Rogers in a particular way, wasting his boyish good looks, his rather noble nose buried in paper-work. Weaver had a flash of the none-too-subtle, downward turn of Rogers’ mouth, an expression seen as he momentarily lost sight of a big picture in favor of tiny detail. An aristocratic frown on what might be a rogue’s face, were he not so _good_.

…. Yet… he looked like a gay stripper, that beat cop’s uniform. He was too pretty and tidy for it, slim hips bulked-up with weaponry and all buttons done-up, badge polished. Sometimes Weaver felt that, at any moment, he would hear a _boom-boom_ insinuation of dance music, and Rogers’ stiff body would melt into gyrations at the pelvis. Long fingers would rise to his collar button, and the tension in his brow would lift as a naughty grin spread across his face.

 _I’ve been called to this precinct on a complaint of…. hornyness_.

Weaver snorted. He took another sip of bourbon, enjoying the warm and fuzzy blanket it began to create. He was mildly startled to feel himself getting hard.

Holding his glass, he paced about his flat. He reached into his jeans and settled things into a more comfortable arrangement. While down there, he slid his thumb over the deep cleft at the head of his cock, slippery with the surprise of arousal. It sent a shiver up and down his spine, warmth low in his belly.

Well, well.

A deliberation set in. Staring out his window, Weaver tried to redirect his thoughts. It was unsettling that the image of gay, stripper-Rogers, an admittedly funny image, had turned him on. Feeling every ounce the letch, he instead conjured up images of Tilly.

She had an appeal that was everything Rogers was not. She was free and wild where he was constrained and tense. She was a snarky urchin where Rogers was serious, polite and by-the-book. She was fair and unencumbered where he was dark, and clearly burdened.

She was young. Importantly, she was female. She was absurd, running about in her masks and costumes, spewing nonsense and riddles, but she was appealing. Her habitual leggings had developed a sizable tear at her right, inner thigh, and it caused a bit of fuckery in Weaver’s head. It teased; creamy, pale skin against dark material, the tear widening daily, moving up.

Taking his drink to his bed, Weaver propped against pillows and let his thoughts become fantasy. The drift, the letting go was pleasant and stirring. His hand settled over the firm bulge at his crotch, a warm fondle though his jeans.

Closing his eyes, he saw himself grab hold of the torn material at Tilly’s leg and rip. Down her leg, up to the elastic at her waist. In his vision, she kept her legs apart, sitting in none-too-lady-like a manner on her troll. She looked down at him, amusement dancing in her light eyes as he lifted the torn material away from her crotch, revealing all things pink and wet, plump and eager.

Setting his drink aside, he got serious. The game was on, his cock at full, needy attention and his blood awash in hard-edged, acid-sharp lust. He scooted out of his jeans, tossed them aside and sprawled, wide-legged, in his rumpled, white shirt. Slowly, he stroked.

What would he do with this street-girl? Kiss her trembling thigh, finger her, lick her. Get her naked on her favorite perch, out in the open, and work her until her amusement faded and she lost all control.

Jarringly, his thoughts were intruded upon. His waif-vision, pale skin and ragged clothes in dappled sunlight, shifted. The shift happened without his direction, annoying as he’d just set a steady pace, a path to release.

Eyes still closed, he saw Roni.

It was not as strange as Rogers, but it felt overly familiar. Maybe _familial_. He could never pin down the source of his feeling, but it seemed it had always been there… a sense of connection. Roni felt like someone with whom he had much history, beyond what he knew of her in Hyperion Heights. It seemed as though she should be a friend, maybe a confidant.

Well, her friendship was that of a bar matron. He could slur some heartfelt nothing at her, should he allow himself to become tipsy in public. She cut him no slack… she seemed a warm sort of woman, but often spared little warmth for him. In return, much of what he said to her, even in passing, was mildly cutting.

The squeeze at his belly, the little jump at his cock told another story. Unlike Tilly, Roni was a full-grown woman. She was lush, her body inviting, her dark eyes sparkling with a knowing that most certainly seemed sexual. In his mind’s eye, Weaver saw the soft shadow of her cleavage and his body felt the warmth of standing close to her, scenting a smoky, spicy sort of perfume. He imagined the little scar at her upper lip. For reasons he could not define, it had always struck him as _dirty_.

It was his habit to fantasize power, control. Taking Tilly from a place of playful amusement to one of begging need, probably on her knees… that was a regular and heady thought. Directing her, maybe denying her, remaining dressed while enforcing her nakedness. These were thoughts and images that came readily to mind, and Weaver was unprepared for his sudden shift of psyche.

He felt certain Roni would be on top. He found he relished the idea… the curl of her full lips highlighting the naughty scar, her smile showing him that – yes – she knew. She knew his desire, his perverted thoughts. She knew his need for control, and she didn’t care about it. She would be running things.

His usual scenario flip-flopped. Roni was dressed. As always, her clothing was dark, an ensemble of black, but for the rich allure of the red roses on her jacket, a note that was part faerie tale and part bordello. The roses echoed her lips, the velvet promise of her mouth.

It was he who was naked. He was under her scrutiny, hands clasped behind his back, as good a boy as Rogers ever was. Obligingly, in reality he unbuttoned his shirt. He slid down the bed, body wallowing in a series of subtle contractions, a muscular pleasure that made him moan aloud. His right hand moved between a fast stroke and a slow fondle, reaching low to caress over his balls, taut with angst. His left hand moved over his belly, his chest. He imagined Roni’s hands, touching and playing over his torso, pinching a sensitive nipple while ignoring the ache of his cock. His hips rocked to the rhythm of his stroke, trying to ease the sharpness of his need. He tasted the need upon his tongue, lips parted.

Things he’d imagined doing to Tilly, he now imagined Roni doing to him. He imagined holding onto the upper frame of a doorway, legs spread to the width of the door as Roni slapped his ass. It was none-too-gentle, the slapping. He imagined the sting of it, the bucking of his hips as he both tried to escape the pain and sought more of it. He saw his cock, as long and hard as ruddy as it was in his hand, bounce with the slap, the jerk of his hips.

He imagined that, perhaps in pity, Roni stood behind him, her body warm against the buzzing sting of his backside, and reached around to give a measure of relief to his weeping cock.

In his bedroom, he groaned at the feeling that rushed through his pelvic floor. It was a hot feeling, an out-of-control bearing down, focused and pronounced, and it made a lava-slow melt into his limbs.

He wanted her mouth; her dirty, knowing mouth. He imagined the dark glimmer of her big, dark eyes as she looked up at him, her luscious mouth opening to the over-heated agony of his cock. He imagined it, but couldn’t make it happen in his vision. There, she only stroked him, and only enough to tease. She teased with her breath at the nape of his neck, at his ear. She raked her splayed fingers over the curve of his ass, where he was red and alert to damage. The pain of it registered as pleasure.

Stroking faster, left hand moving to his face, then into his hair, he imagined that she undressed down to a crimson, lacy bra and matching heels. She walked about, considering what to do with him and allowing him to simply _look_ … the subtle jiggle at her bared, heart-shaped ass; the dark little thicket of pubic hair that hid the parts of her he was curious and anxious to behold. She sat on the edge of a bed and crossed her sleek legs. Maybe she would pause to balance her check-book or send a bloody text while he waited, suspended in a violent tremor of want, barely breathing for fear of making it all come to an end.

A strange thing happened, and Weaver wondered at his complete lack of control over his own thoughts. They ran wild. Who was at the bloody helm?

The scene remained the same, but it was no longer himself he saw under Roni’s command. It was Rogers.

The effect of the vision within his body was inescapable. He felt himself draw up, nearly spurting out hot come in something like a shock of lust. His gasp was audible. Purposefully, he stopped his stroke. Holding tight to the base of his cock, his hips tensed, then rocked as the impending orgasm receded. He wanted more… more of the intensity of the build, more of the visions that unfolded without his direct input. The hot waves of pleasure, peaking in a way that was almost too much to bear, then quieting enough that he could stroke again, prolonged and feverish and on edge.

It got to him; Rogers, the good boy. So concerned.

As Weaver had seen himself, he saw Rogers standing before Roni, hands together behind his back. Or, no. He was cuffed. He was naked, a lithe sweep of lean muscle and dark fur. His arms looked surprisingly strong, well defined, but his eyes were downcast. His cheeks were flushed, a hectic color over the dark scruff of his jaw.

It had to be admitted, Rogers was pretty. Some aspect of this fact, some sniggling little facet of his _goodness_ had wormed its way beneath Weaver’s skin, and was now toying with him in unspeakable ways. His alarm was such that he wanted to stop. He felt like a fool, suddenly self-conscious of how he must look… sprawled on his bed, dick in hand, overcome and close to whimpering. This was not who he was. He wanted to stop his game, his pursuit of his stray thoughts and finish his fucking drink. Go find a properly drunk woman to properly fuck, rather than dangle in this juvenile play.

But… bloody hell. The throb at his cock was the sort of keen pleasure that _hurt_ … it made his hand wander down to squeeze his balls. The throb moved in time with his heartbeat, his pulse. His blood, after its initial, shocking rush, had slowed with the onset of Rogers, and its slowing caused a quiet in his head. It was only with the quiet that he realized how loud it had been in there.

The air around him, the space of his bedroom seemed weirdly still. In the stillness, behind closed eyes and a newly tensed brow, he watched.

The sense of voyeurism was full and complete. It was a little new. They were a dark pair, the players he watched. He let his mind’s eye wander over Rogers’ long back, the taut curve of his ass. He looked at parted lips, feathery-dark eyelashes and the frank need of a cock that jutted out, awkward and impudent despite the penitent bow of Rogers’ head.

He watched Roni in her heeled stalk, her near nakedness. She circled. She grazed a hand, fingers tipped in a wine-red that was nearly black, along the length of Rogers’ cock. It jumped, shiny at the tip, and Weaver’s cock jumped in sympathy, leaking and hot with desperation.

Roni slapped the wanton object, and Weaver moaned as Rogers moaned, hips jerking back, then forward. There came a prolonged moment wherein Weaver didn’t know where to look. Roni returned to the edge of the bed. She leaned back, propped on a forearm, and spread her legs wide.

It made Weaver a little delirious… his mind offered up years of experience and pornography, and he watched her fingers play about slick, wet, and reddened folds as she looked at Rogers. He watched the flush of blood at her face, her chest and neck; the tension at her belly. Her fingers moved quickly, a side-to-side jiggle, and her lips parted, her eyes squeezed shut as she brought herself off, breathy and urgent.

After, she kept her legs apart, one finger slipping inside. She let Rogers watch the jump at her pussy as contractions squeezed and released her insides.

Weaver watched Rogers, too. The lift of his dark blue eyes as he watched Roni, the shockingly beautiful conflict on his face. The worry at his brow and the tension at his jaw, throughout his body, as he couldn’t keep his eyes down. He looked up, his eyes swallowed Roni, drank her down, his cock responsive and full of agenda. Weaver took in the tremble at his arms, his legs.

He wanted to _do_ something about it. To touch Rogers, fold his hand around the cock that rose up from a nest of soft, dark hair. He wanted to brush his lips against Rogers’, to tease with the sensitive tip of his tongue.

Breath even and deep, he stroked. He was suspended between the two, thoughts honed in on the picture Roni made, yet all of his tactile feeling centered on Rogers… the heat of his body, the pain on his face.

Then, he was in the picture again. He stood before Rogers and teased his cock… a stroke too loose and light to get the pretty, good-boy off. He lifted a hand to cup Rogers’ face, slipping his thumb between feverish and willing lips.

 _God_ … the suckle. The hot velvet of it. Roger’s expression that was both bitter resentment and stark need. Torment and desire. Roni stood behind Rogers and worked him with a slicked-up, lubricated toy, and Weaver watched the violation make its mark on Rogers’ face. His brows knit, his teeth made a light bite against Weaver’s thumb. He moaned and his eyelashes made a pretty flutter.

He bent forward a bit at the waist, allowing the violation. He depended on Roni and Weaver to hold him up. Weaver swallowed, his body caught up in a torrent of something like prayer. _Please_ , his mind begged, incoherent. For what did he beg? Was it for himself, or for the man his mind freely plundered?

Rogers’ suck on his thumb became complete; it was in earnest. He whimpered, his hips moving back to ride the toy. His eyes looked up at Weaver, glassy and fevered with unshed tears.

Fuck it. That was it. Weaver couldn’t hold out any longer. The scene shifted so that he was on the bed, fucking Roni as roughly as he could imagine. He took her from behind, his hand fisted in her hair. His thrusts were violent; noisy slapping and pounding sounds of bodies crashing together. He gritted his teeth and gloated over the sight of his cock, a shiny blur that moved in and out of her, her posture showing every intimate part of her body.

From the vantage point of his mind’s eye, he could also see her face… frozen in an anguished mask of raw hunger, her eyes closed and mouth wide open. She either gulped air or did not breathe, her slippery pussy growing tighter and tighter, gripping him and milking.

He saw Rogers, watching. The poor boy’s desire went unsated. His eyes were dark and turbulent, his face almost angry as he watched Weaver fuck Roni. But his hips rocked helplessly, his parted lips were flushed, his breath heavy.

On his bed, Weaver stroked fast, his fist closing tight on his cock. His focus was near the full, flared head, the leak of pre-cum steady. His left hand moved low, fingers pressed hard beneath his balls. His body was a tense bow, heels dug into the bed, toes flexed. His face mirrored Roni’s… he hovered over a chasm, feeling that – at any moment – he would drop. He longed for it, he held his breath.

Then it was Rogers he fucked. _Jesus_. Rogers, on his back, knees drawn up, his dark head cushioned on Roni’s lap. She played her red-tipped fingers against his lips, and he moaned without restraint. Weaver plowed into him, moving al three, shaking the bed.

His own bed shook as his strokes became frantic, noisy. A long groan was torn from his chest… he went fiercely hot and then cold, his blood rushed and then its tide oddly receded… hot come spurted from his impossibly reddened cock, angry with veins hat stood out in relief. He spurted all over his belly, his chest. His groan became a growl, huffy with breath, and his breathing was ragged and loud for some moments, after.

For a time, he didn’t think. The visions that had taken over his head blipped out of existence. His mind was dark as his fingertips slid and finger-painted in the somewhat viscous fluid, his eyes closed.

The pictures crept back; the lush vision of Roni, the utterly shocking vision of Rogers… spent, fucked-out.

For a moment, Weaver inwardly recoiled. He wanted to dismiss all that had happened in his head. He _had_ to… how would he face these people, otherwise? He began to reject any notion that he could be attracted to Rogers. That he would allow Roni to _spank_ him.

His body cooled. The fluid he’d spilled was making him grimace. He shrugged out of his shirt, never opening his eyes, and used it to tidy up. He wondered at all he’d thought and seen, almost as if it had really happened.

Rogers came into his view, a picture of efficiency at work. The uniform. The narrow-hipped yet rich curve of his ass, holster and heavy belt in place. _No_ , he thought. Then, drifting off to a soggy-brained sleep, he thought, _I should really see to it he gets made detective_.

 

 

 

 


End file.
